


hiraeth

by idontknowhowtoread (heatherpotts)



Category: PBG Hardcore
Genre: Ghosts, M/M, and we got stupid bitches falling in love, fucken.. fisherman au, i dont think this au surprises anyone coming from me fghffj, it is just.. everything i like we got water we got implied and deeply worrying sadness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-10-28 12:07:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20778302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heatherpotts/pseuds/idontknowhowtoread
Summary: Either the sea has finally driven Mcjones mad, or he's really met a ghost.





	hiraeth

**Author's Note:**

> shout out to the fucken.. not to be dramatic but ya girl just wanna decompose back into the earth and that's just how it be playlist on spotify and also writer bot on discord bc I did like 3 sprints working on this. also to all da ghosts out there mwah

In all of his years of living on the seaside, being pulled along on fishing trips and now working for that business; Mcjones had never seen anything like _ this. _

** **

He never _ thought _he would. He had heard stories like this, sure, but they were never meant to be more than the delusions of drunken and lonely sailors. Old wives' tales, at best. The product of a crueler era, long gone by.

** **

But he certainly wasn’t drunk; that was, unless someone had drugged his supper. And yet, he was certainly _ seeing _things. 

** **

When he first saw the ghost- he _ thinks _it was the first, at least- it was out of the corner of his eye. They were far out to sea, a heavy fog hanging over them, voyaging blindly home. And he saw what seemed to be a shred of billowing white fabric behind him on the deck.

** **

He turned and saw nothing.

** **

Later that day, he saw the ghost again, _ really _this time. A white dress, flung about in the wind, and hair dark like the night sky. 

** **

The ghost turned- it, _ he- _and within the blink of an eye, with the shifting of the winds, he was gone.

** **

Shortly after that, Mcjones went and laid down, staring at the ceiling, not saying another word to his crewmates.

** **

And he kept seeing the ghost, again and again after that. He knew, at least _ thought _ he was hallucinating, seeing something that wasn’t really there, yet something that he _ wanted _ to see. Because he had constructed an image in his head of a man, pale and windswept, a mystery of the seas, and Mcjones was getting awfully lonely. He had practically grown up on these kinds of ships, and it was _ finally _getting to him. 

** **

He supposed, there’s only so long a man can go, staring out at nothing but waves and sky and seeing _ nothing _before he constructs for himself something else to look at.

** **

He saw the ghost out on the rocks, near the shore. Underneath the docks, his pale hands, long and bony, crawling up the pillars. Leaning onto the railings of his ship, looking out at the sea like Mcjones had done hundreds of times, and ending up in rooms nobody but his most trusted and _ qualified _crewmates should ever enter.

** **

It was kind of funny after a while. Whether or not this ghost was a figment of his imagination, at least he had a sense of humor. 

** **

But now, it was seeming like this ghost was more than a delusion. The ghost was on the ship again, hands clutching the railing and up on the tips of his toes looking out over the water, like a child at sea for the first time. Which was rather cute, truly, but not true at all. 

** **

But for the first time, the ghost remained in his sights for more than five seconds. Mcjones started counting after a while, and marked down each thing that passed in that time. 

** **

_ One, he’s back. _

** **

_ Two, he’s staring at the sea, won’t look at me. _

** **

_ Three, a wind comes, his dress is pretty. _

** **

_ Four, his hair is falling into his face. He looks down slightly. _

** **

_ Five, he looks tired. _

** **

_ … _

** **

_ Ten, he looks at me. _

** **

And it was only in that moment that Mcjones thought to really consider _ what _ the ghost was, if not a mere hallucination. His face was too _ detailed, _ something so new and someone Mcjones had certainly never seen before. His hair clung to his face even more than it had before, wetted with fog and saltwater, and square rimmed glasses hung low on his nose, the glass slightly clouded over. He looked tired, but there was still a light in his eyes that tried desperately to tell Mcjones that he was _ alive, _ and after a moment of looking Mcjones over, _ drinking him in, _the ghost smiled.

** **

Then the winds changed, and he was gone. 

** **

Mcjones didn’t sleep much that night either; he stared at the ceiling and mused to himself over just _ what _ exactly was going on? Mcjones could count the people in this town by giving cutting down a net of fish and giving each one a name, and there was _ no _ way he had ever known someone who looked even _ remotely _like his ghost. He couldn’t even name one feature that could be likened to anyone else Mcjones had ever known, although…

** **

Maybe that had somewhat to do with the fact that the ghost was probably the prettiest person he had ever seen. Even in a town as picturesque as this, supposedly housing some mermaids, the ghost was like no one Mcjones had ever seen. The light in his eyes, the childlike joy and honesty in his smile, the fabric that flowed around him in stark contrast with his hair, dark and wind tossed and so haphazardly _ perfect. _

** **

He was willing to consider the idea that the ghost was real, if not for mere entertainment’s sake. He wasn’t a mermaid, Mcjones could cross that off the list right away. Nothing particularly fishy about him in that sort of way, definitely had legs, and was able to disappear at will, which was notably not a mermaid thing.

** **

He wondered if the ghost was actually coming and leaving at will, given how the winds always seemed to change when he disappeared. Maybe the ghost wasn’t particularly powerful in any sort of way; he was no siren, wishing to draw him in with his voice and claw at his skin, dragging him down. And he was no particularly benevolent spirit either; not to say he wasn’t good, but he didn’t come to give Mcjones any advice or navigational guidance. He would just show up, and leave as soon as the winds changed.

** **

His initial assumption of ghost must have been correct, but now, he wanted to know who this ghost was. 

** **

A ghost was infinitely more interesting than anyone else in this town, more than the sea and so much more than these little fishing trips. 

** **

He somewhat envied the ghost already; perhaps he was dragged along by forces that were finicky and that he couldn’t control, but he was free. He wasn’t stuck on his father’s boat, doing a job that he had been born into and had never been given a chance to go elsewhere. And the ghost did seem to have some semblance of a choice, given where he often ended up, which meant that he was sticking around on this ship because he _wanted to._

** **

Finding this ghost of his was the first semi-tangible thing Mcjones had wanted in a long time. Been _able_ to want. Other than the vague concept of freedom, of escape, or maybe just throwing himself into the sea and leaving her to whatever she wished with his body.

** **

It was funny how chasing this ghost of his was so much more reasonable than any of that.

** **

\---

** **

The next time Mcjones spotted him, they were both on land, feeling like it was the first time in centuries. Mcjones had gotten used to the ships, so learning how to walk on land again was surprisingly, worryingly challenging.

** **

Then he saw his ghost, a decent ways away, but on the same strip of shore. He sat on a throne of rocks, staring out at the sea, surrounded by the pale sand and the grey sky, painting a picture as ghostly as himself. The wind blew against his face, blowing his hair back and fluttering his dress, and the longer Mcjones stared, it didn’t seem like he was going away.

** **

He took one step closer, gauging how easily he’d disappear. Then another, and ten more.

** **

The ghost turned his head, looking at him directly again. And he smiled, and Mcjones wondered if maybe he was really a siren all along, just really taking his time with it, because it pulled Mcjones to him like how the moon pulled the tide.

** **

Soon enough, he was closer to the ghost than he ever thought he would have been, his body still retaining that strange sort of haunted fuzziness, but more than enough detail now to tell Mcjones that _ this was real. _

** **

He clambered up onto the rocks, the ghost making room for him, and it was surprisingly… comfortable. Given that it was a _ rock, _in an area where they were typically dangerously sharp. And that they were close enough to the sea to feel its spray, but it didn’t feel nearly as humid as it often was. If anything, it was cold, which Mcjones could easily attribute to the ghost by his side.

** **

“Uh… Hey,” Mcjones started, immediately regretting how stupid it sounded, how unsure of himself he was. 

** **

The ghost smiled even wider, making the motion of a sharp exhale and a chuckle, but remaining silent. 

** **

_ Ghost, _right.

** **

“Are you… Or, uh… Do you need something from me in particular? What’s got you hanging around, I should say.”

** **

Mcjones didn’t know why he asked that; much too suddenly, much too blunt, even _ rude. _And he didn’t even know how well the ghost could respond, but Mcjones doubted he could at all. 

** **

The ghost shrugged, gesturing towards the sea, and then gesturing towards Mcjones. 

** **

And he kept looking at Mcjones, a hazy gaze that was fonder than Mcjones had… _ ever seen, _ truly, in a town of hardy fishermen and emotionally distant women. There could be any number of intentions and implications behind the way the ghost smiled, any number of them bad, but it had a way of just _ catching _Mcjones. 

** **

Mcjones took it as, and he really hoped he was interpreting it right, _ not needing anything in particular, just here to look. _

** **

_ Just here to look _ was the most _ delicate _ way Mcjones could put it, the one that didn’t sound like it was overreaching or overly narcissistic, and _ still _it didn’t sound correct. Why should he care about some fisherman’s son, with nothing particular of interest? He could understand staring at the sea for hours on end, he did that all the time, but… there wasn’t much to look at just with him, was there?

** **

Only one way to make sure, he supposed.

** **

“Just… hanging out, you mean? Looking at stuff?” Mcjones asked, managing to sugar coat it even further, and the ghost nodded. 

** **

The ghost still refused to avert his gaze, which Mcjones thought might start driving him crazy soon. The ghost then pointed at Mcjones’ wrist, a clump of colorful bands surrounding it, then gestured to all of Mcjones once more, and mouthed as clearly as he could while still smiling, _ like. _

** **

Mcjones could feel the rush of blood to his cheeks- it made him almost lightheaded, and he feared that his burst of red was ruining this perfectly pale scene.

** **

“Oh… Uh, thank you.”

** **

The ghost seemed to think that was funny, which was at least a step above total destruction.

** **

They sat for a while longer, much longer than Mcjones could have asked for, but he supposed it was inevitable that the winds would change once more. Without warning, except for the gentle breeze that followed, the ghost was gone, leaving a spot on the rocks that was kept completely dry.

** **

He wished the ghost would have stayed even longer, but that wasn’t the wish he wanted to focus on. He wished that this spot on the rocks would remain completely dry, cold, untouched by the sea or the sun or anyone else that found their way onto this strip, because if the ghost couldn’t stay, his impact at least should. At least a little longer.

** **

But Mcjones didn’t know who he was kidding. A ghost was a ghost, after all.

** **

\---

** **

Mcjones had simply stared at the message in the sand for longer than he had even meant to, much longer than he’d ever like to admit. 

** **

His ghost was back, sitting peacefully in the sand, a scene as pale and grey as always that Mcjones couldn’t help but interrupt. And Mcjones had finally built up the courage to ask the ghost his name, and he _ smiled, god, _and wrote it in the sand with his pointer finger.

** **

_ Dean _

** **

And it was a sudden rush of feeling, like the changing of the winds, but _ god, _ Mcjones would cry if _ Dean _ left so suddenly that this was all he was left with. The name echoed in his mind, _ Dean, _ screeched like seagulls and roared like the tide, carried so much identity and implication that Mcjones couldn’t stop repeating it. And when he tore his eyes away from the sand, all he could do was stare at Dean, how the look he was giving him was so innocent, almost childlike, finding joy in the tiniest things, in the mere mention of his own name. How the dim sunlight still filtered through him in a way that wasn’t quite as unsettling anymore, more so _ethereal,_ how his glasses never caught sprays of mist and the sand never clung to or dirtied his dress.

** **

He nodded, closing his eyes, because it was the only way he could get himself to stop.

** **

“Dean… Nice,” Mcjones muttered, as if that made the storm raging inside his head any less visible, as if it made him any more subtle. He was just as transparent as Dean was, if not completely see through. _ God. _“And… You know my name by now, right?” Mcjones asked, half meaning it to be a joke.

** **

Dean grinned, so strangely and unequivocally _ adorable, _and he mouthed his name, like he had actually expected for the sound to come out.

** **

Even though it didn’t, it was still more than enough for Mcjones. More than enough to send his heart soaring, plummeting to the deepest depths of the sea and travelling the stars as his eyes recorded every inch and detail of Dean. Even through his ghostly fuzziness, Mcjones held onto the silky texture of his dress, the way his hair blew in the breeze, the way his glasses sat a bit loosely on his nose, and the freckles that dotted his cheeks like stars over the night sky, as clear as it could possibly be out at sea. When the stars were all Mcjones could see, reflected in every direction.

** **

“Dean,” Mcjones repeated again, just weighing the name and letting it roll off his tongue, feeling the _ magic _of those four simple letters run through his veins, implanting some new instinct that drew him closer to his ghost. “... I really like that name, I dunno’ why. Dean.”

** **

Dean giggled again, soundlessly, but Mcjones could feel the reverberations deep down in his soul. 

** **

He’d have to get back on the boat soon. Get back to work, tossing nets into the sea and hefting them back up, trapped in a constant state of boredom and loneliness, how even when there were plenty of other men on the ship, there was still nobody _ really _around for miles, far beyond the horizon. 

** **

Now that he had Dean- _ God, _ he wasn’t sure if he could even say that he _ had _ him, but maybe it would be different. He could stare at the midnight waves and feel like an insect beneath the stars, and maybe he wouldn’t feel quite so lonely. A ghost was nothing but a ghost, but it was still so… special, to Mcjones. He had never known _ anyone, really _like he knew his ghost, even if all he knew was his name, and that he had a pretty smile.

** **

There was a name for that feeling, Mcjones knew it, and it was on the tip of his tongue. But he was a fisherman’s son, after all, and even though he tried to immerse himself in his reading, he still didn’t think he was quite articulate enough for it. 

** **

And Dean was but a ghost, nothing more.

** **

What a pair they were; both were never quite enough for themselves. But for the other, maybe, they were. 

** **

\---

** **

Mcjones was starting to think that he’d do anything for his ghost.

** **

If Dean had really been a siren all along, and he was just toying with him after all this time, wrapping his life like a string around his finger, Mcjones had to applaud him; he had done a phenomenal job. 

** **

At this point, he’d do anything Dean could fit into a message he could trace into the sand. If he wanted Mcjones to quit his job and sail the seas alone, he would. If he wanted Mcjones to rob the nearest tacky boutique and bring him all of their dresses, he would. If he wanted Mcjones kill everyone else on his fishing boat so that they could be _ truly _ alone, he would. If he floated down to the surface of the sea as he often did, walking backwards over the waves and expected Mcjones to follow him, _ god, _he would. He’d do it all. He’d dive down to the very bottom of the sea and speak to the devil himself, if it was what Dean wanted. If it could let Dean stay, if it could make it so Mcjones could be with him always, he’d do it. 

** **

Being with Dean was already a sort of hellfire, it felt like. 

** **

And Dean, it at least seemed to Mcjones, was willing to do just as much. He gleefully pointed out every bit of Mcjones that he particularly liked, even if it was still the raggedy uniform he had seen countless times before. He stayed with Mcjones as long and as often as he could, appearing for split seconds on the ship, just to let Mcjones know he was there. On a night that the winds were _ relentless, _in the moment Dean had to spare, he left Mcjones a pearl.

** **

He wasn’t sure where Dean had found it, but it was real. Imperfect, a bit darker than Mcjones typically thought them to be, but still shining in the moonlight, and he kept it in his pocket _constantly,_ suddenly becoming the only thing Mcjones owned that he even _ cared _ about keeping. Mcjones couldn’t touch him often, it seemed to take quite a bit out of Dean, but when he did, it felt like _ heaven. _It was cold, still a bit eerily fuzzy and buzzing with electricity, and felt almost as if he was holding hands with a firmer mist, equally light, but holding him too.

** **

How many people could say they had held hands with a ghost?

** **

The word for the feeling still evaded Mcjones, and he didn’t bother searching too hard for it. But one word came up that was close at least, devotion.

** **

He was certainly devoted. Dean was _ his _ghost, and he supposed he was Dean’s human. 

** **

Another word that didn’t quite fit, but felt like it was somewhat close, cosmic. If Dean himself was something of a higher power, it made sense that their _ connection _ was too. If they were like how the moon guided the tides, pushing and pulling, and Dean did remind him of the moon, truly. Pale and _ beautiful, _ drawing Mcjones to him with a magnitude sirens _ wish _ they could acquire, belonging among the stars. Mcjones was lucky to have touched him, if only a couple times, and he found himself almost _ worshipping _that lunar goddess. 

** **

For all he knew, maybe that’s what Dean really was, just a child of the moon. Not quite a ghost, never formerly anything; just a cosmic lover that had found his way to a tide that would gladly follow his every move.

** **

…

** **

That’s when the realization hit Mcjones, like being thrown from a ship in the middle of a storm, suddenly surrounded in freezing cold and a strangely comforting weight. 

** **

It’s love. That’s what it is. That’s what they are, in love.

** **

He’s in love with a ghost. 

** **

And _g__od, _ Mcjones could scream his lungs out just repeating that, could give up all his air to the sea and let himself be _claimed_ by it, because _ god, _he already had been. It’s love, it’s love.

** **

Distantly, a message is carried across a salty breeze, from far, far away. Not even a message, but a feeling, one that burrows into Mcjones’ soul and shakes him loose, makes him fall apart and come back together a better man than he had ever thought he could _ever_ be.

** **

It’s love, it’s love,_ it’s love. _


End file.
